The Man of the Convention
by Roses for Ophelia
Summary: Jean Valjean wasn't the only one to have a life changing event in Digne.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N-we all remember G-, don't we?_

"Why, come in, Carlotta," Baptistine opened the door with a smile reserved for her very oldest and best friends, " I hope you don't mind the state of our home. My brother spends all his money on the poor, so we haven't much to ourselves."

"It's a lovely home, Baptistine," Carlotta said quite honestly, "You mustn't be ashamed of it. It's clean, it's sturdy, no pretensions or affectations. Your brother is a good man." Baptistine beamed.

"You've brought the child, I see." She said, stooping down to get a look at the seven-year-old boy her old school friend had gripped by the hand.

"Well, there was nothing else to be done with him; his father won't have him when I'm traveling, and his nurse is ill. I had to bring him along. I hope you don't mind?"

"Not at all, Carlotta, not at all." She looked at the boy. He was standing straight as a soldier on parade, though his eyes were cast down. "And what is your name?" she asked him. The boy lifted his blue eyes for the first time. The expression in them was one of acute intelligence and a dignity that bordered on harshness that was quite at odds with his years.

"Marcellin, Madame." He said.

"Well, Marcellin, why don't you go play in the garden? We have a very pretty garden here." She turned back to the boy's mother. " If it is all right with your mother."

"It's fine with me." His mother said. She turned to the boy. "Go on, Marcellin, go play." Carlotta let go of the boy's hand and leaned down to give him a kiss, which he barely reacted to before setting off for the gardens.

"He's a handsome boy, Carlotta, but is he always so sullen?" Baptistine asked as they entered the house, heading for her small sitting room on the second floor.

"Not always, but more often than not. He spends too much time alone, that's the problem. We move around a lot. My husband is always chasing one dream or another, and we have to follow him. Marcellin's never had much time to make friends. I believe he's stopped trying." Carlotta sighed, " His nurse isn't the best woman for the job, either. She's nearly as quiet and sullen as he is; it must be where he gets it from. Though, I swear, Baptistine, he can be a terror sometimes. The things he gets it in his head to do!"

"Such as what?"

"Oh, he'll start looking for something, a book, or a piece of jewelry, something he's seen once and not cared about. But if he gets it into his head that he wants it he'll tear apart the house trying to find it. And if he doesn't, there's hell to pay. Or he'll decide he has to see what's around the corner or over the hill. I'll turn my back and he'll be gone—just like that, and there's no way of finding out where he's gotten to. He'll come back, hours later, with his pants ripped and mud on his face, and no explanation." Carlotta paused, as if wondering if she should speak any more, " Of course his temper is the worst. If he's angry at something, he'll just go off—no explanation, no warning. Sometimes he won't even tell me what he's screaming about, not even when he's calmed down afterward. Really, Baptistine, the boy is so clever, and so passionate, but I don't think I understand him, at times." Baptistine nodded sagaciously.

"He'll grow out of it, I suppose, once he starts going to school."

"He isn't going to school. My husband won't hear of it." Carlotta said as she eased herself into one of the small chairs in the sitting room. "He'll have a private tutor 'like all well-brought up boys.'"

"You disapprove?"

"A bit," Carlotta admitted, "I love my husband, but I'm not sure if he's right about a lot of things he says. He's just as severe and austere as Marcellin, sometimes."

"Ah, well, that's the problem with husbands," Baptistine responded with a knowing smile, "I know it's been nearly eight years, but it is so difficult to think of you as married, my dear."

"I know," Carlotta agreed, "It took me ever so long to think of myself as Madame Enjolras."

The garden was boring. Flowers, vegetables, an apple tree not good for climbing. Nothing worth looking at. The bugs crawling around had lost his interest after only a few minutes. And here he was, stuck in this horrible garden for as long as his mother felt necessary to talk to that woman, whoever she was.

"Well, I'm not staying here." Marcellin pronounced out loud, though there was no one to hear him, and he wouldn't have cared if there was.

Without a second thought he climbed over the small fence leading to the street. His mother would be inside for at least an hour. She wouldn't notice if he was gone. Why did they have to pass through the awful town, any way? It was bad enough they were going to visit those awful aunts of his in Avignon. Why did they have to stop here?

There was nothing _here_. There was no one on the street. There were no stores, or gardens, or boys playing. And to think he had complained about St. Raphael being boring. At least it was interesting to explore. This place was as quiet as a cemetery. Marseille had been better than St. Raphael, but St. Raphael was better than this awful place.

The urge to scream came over him, as it often did. He rarely held back the urge when it came, but for once, he decided, he would. No one knew him here. They might think he was possessed. He could scream all he wanted at home; no one noticed any more. It was just the mad Enjolras boy off again.

The town was small; it was not long before he was out of it. The roads stretched on forever. Could he follow them back to St. Raphael? Back to Marseille? Back to Toulon? Back to….what had been before Toulon?

He had no idea where he was going, and he didn't care. He was outside of stupid Digne, and it was all he cared about. Not that the boy was lost. He had done enough walking on his own to have learned how to memorize landmarks, tell directions by the sun's shadow and mark his path. He was a seasoned explorer.

He jumped over a ditch, cleared a hedge, made his way through a brush fence and to his surprise found himself in a run-down garden.

"Fascinating." The boy said to himself. It was his favorite word.

The garden looked like it had been tended once, but not in a while. There were flowers and vegetables, to be sure, but there were also weeds. A few pears hung in a tree above his head. His stomach growled. They looked sweet. The garden had to belong to someone; was it worth risking their wrath to get a pear?

The growling of his stomach answered his question. With very little effort, Marcellin pulled himself into the lower branches of the pear tree. The ones at the bottom were already rotten. He'd have to climb higher to get a sweet one.

Eyeing a particularly juicy pear at the top, Marcellin braced himself against a branch and attempted to pull himself further up the tree. If his footing had been a bit more steady, the pear would have been his, he would have climbed down the tree and continued on his way, and the boy's life might have been different. But as fate would have it, the branch Marcellin was braced against broke off, and the boy came tumbling down, hitting the ground with a resounding thud, the pear still at the top of the tree.

The boy swore in Occitan, two things he was not allowed to do coupled into one, which gave him no small pleasure. But before he could brush himself off and give the pear tree another attempt, he heard a voice call him.

"Who's there?" the voice was saying. Marcellin froze. Should he run? Probably. But if he stuck around the owner of the voice might feel bad for him, and give him something to eat. Even if he didn't get anything to eat out of it, he could at least find someone to talk to, and some entertainment for the afternoon. Anything was better than going back to stupid Digne and his mother's stupid friend.

Marcellin remained in place. He could hear footsteps behind him.

"Well, look at that! It's a little boy!" Marcellin turned around. Behind him was an old man, hair as white as snow. He leaned upon a cane made of birch wood. The man was not smiling but his eyes were shining.

"I'm not little." Marcellin said. It was his first reaction to anyone calling him a little boy. The old man smiled a little at that.

"No, you're not little." He said, "What's your name, boy, and what are you doing here? You're not from Digne if you've wound up here."

"I'm Marcellin," The boy said, " And I'm not from stupid Digne." This caused the old man to actually laugh.

"No? Then where are you from?"

"I'm from St. Raphael right now. But before that I was from Marseille. And soon I'll be from Cahors."

"Aha, your father moves around, does he?"

"He's a ne'er do well." The boy said, using a term he had often heard applied to his father, though to be honest, he did not know what it meant. He imagined it was his father's job, the way some people's fathers were doctors or soldiers. " He buys land in places, and we have to go there. Then he decides there's another place he'd rather be, that he wants to buy a vineyard, or go into shipping. We have to follow him."

"You don't like that, do you, boy?" The old man asked. Marcellin shook his head vigorously. "So what are you doing in Digne?"

"We're passing through. We're going to visit my horrible aunts, but mother decided to visit some old friend of hers first." The man nodded.

"And why did you come here? You shouldn't run off from your mother, boy."

"I came here because I was bored." The boy said with a shrug. He looked around. "How come you live here, and not in Digne? Do you hate it there?"

"No, I don't hate it there." The old man said, leaning on his cane. "Digne simply hates me."

"Why?" the boy asked, looking at the old man suspiciously.

"Because of something I did a long time ago, before you were born."

"What? Did you kill someone?" Marcellin's eyes went wide. The old man shook his head sadly.

"No. I certainly did not. Sometimes I think that is the only thing that prevents them from hanging me from a tree."

"So what did you do?" The boy asked.

"I was a member of the Convention." The boy looked blank.

"What's that?" he asked.

"You don't know what the Convention is?" The boy shook his head, "Or what happened in '93? Or '89?" The boy shook his head twice. The man's eyes went wide. "Surely you know about Maximillian Robespierre, and Danton, and Louis XVI? The sacking of the Bastille? The Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen? My boy, do you mean to tell me you know nothing of the Revolution?"

"I've…heard of it." Marcellin said. "My father mentioned it once or twice."

"And what did he say about it?" The old man asked, studying the boy intently.

"He said that…that he had to run away from Paris because if he had stayed the sans-culottes would have had his head." The man nodded.

"Do you know what a sans-culotte is, my boy?"

"Someone who goes around without any pants?" The man shook his head and laughed sadly.

"My boy, you are lacking in knowledge of the history of your own country. "

"That's not true!" The boy protested, " I know about Charlemagne, and Louis XIV and the Battle of Agincourt and—"

"So," The old man said, " You know the history of tyranny well enough, I don't doubt it. But did anyone ever teach you the history of progress? The history of the _defeat_ of tyranny?"

"No," the boy said, "What's that?" The old man smiled at him.

"Come inside, my boy. I will tell you the story of the French Revolution."

_Don't worry, more to come! I'd like to highly reccomend that anyone who isn't participating on the Abaisse read through to do so-it's incredibly awesome already, and you get ideas for stuff like this!_


	2. Chapter 2

The old man led the boy inside his dilapidated hut.

"You live here?" The boy asked, surveying the hut with disapproval.

"It is better, sometimes, than living with people. Sit down, my boy; I'll put up a pot of tea."

"Don't like tea." The boy said, folding his arms across his chest.

"Milk, then."

"Don't like milk, either." The boy repeated, though he sat in one of the rickety chairs by a wooden table.

"Picky, aren't you, boy? All right, nothing, then. Shall we start our story?"

"If you like," The boy said, interested in spite of himself. He had heard the phrase 'French Revolution' used a few times at home, but he was not sure what it was. What fascinated him above all was the way the man spoke when he said those words: The French Revolution. He said them the way some people said The Holy Father. He said them with the conviction of a believer. The boy had spent too much time with his cynical, temperamental nurse not to be fascinated by someone who spoke of something with admiration and respect in his tone. Whatever this French Revolution, this Defeat of Tyranny, was he was fascinated by it because the old man was fascinated by it. He put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, waiting expectantly for the story, and the answers.

"Where to begin? Where to begin?" The old man mumbled, easing himself into the other kitchen chair. "Shall we begin with what we did, or why we did it?" Marcellin shrugged, feigning indifference, though the topic of discussion was captivating him already.

"Do you know what tyranny means?" The old man asked. The boy shook his head. "It is the rule of the few over the many. It is the rule of injustice. It is the abuse of power." The boy still looked blank, "Let me see if I can put it more simply. I imagine your father makes rules for you; tells you what to do?" The boy shook his head.

"He doesn't care about me. He's always in his study, or with his friends."

"Ah. Well, then, your mother? She makes rules for you?" The boy nodded.

"She made me come here."

"And I imagine you don't always like her rules."

"No, I don't." the boy grumbled.

"And I'm sure you obey her now, because you are a good son, and a good boy, right?" The boy did not answer. "But when you grow up, you will not have to obey her then, will you? When you get older you will not have to listen to what your mother tells you to do; when you are a man you will do as you please, right?" The boy nodded. "Well, what if your mother continued to tell you what to do, even when you were a man. If she wouldn't let you leave home, wouldn't let you see who you pleased, go where you pleased, make your own rules. Not now, mind you, as a child should be obedient, but when you are a man—wouldn't that be wrong of her?" The boy nodded.

"It wouldn't be fair."

"Then that would be a child's definition of tyranny; the law being unfair. So now, imagine that all of France was like that; the few were ruling the many unjustly, and the many were being ignored. Have you ever met a boy like that? The sort who is always telling everyone else what to do?" Marcellin nodded.

"Jean-Louis. He was in Marseille. He tried to boss my friends around, and take our things because he was bigger than we were."

"And what did you do about him? Anything?" The boy nodded proudly.

"I thrashed him. He was picking on one of my friends, so me and my friends thrashed him." The old man laughed again.

"And did it help?" Marcellin shrugged.

"Not really. We all got in trouble, and Jean-Louis just went back to thrashing us a week later."

"So what did you do?"

"We thrashed him again." Marcellin replied, as if the man should have already realized that. The old man laughed and hit the floor with his cane.

"Well, boy, what if I told you that the French Revolution was just like that; a bunch of people thrashing an older boy who took their stuff! What would you say to that?"

"I'd say, good for the French Revolution-though I still do not know what it is." The boy added testily.

"That was what it was, in a nutshell. Imagine a very few rich people—boys like Jean-Louis-were telling everyone else what to do. Imagine most of the country was poor and hungry, and worst of all, ignored. And imagine that the king—though I do not doubt that he meant well—not only did not truly listen to the people, he did not care. So imagine—and this happened, mind you—that a big council was called together, the Estates General; one estate for the Clergy, one for the Nobility and one for Everyone Else. I probably don't have to tell you that the third estate outnumbered everyone else, do I?"

"No, I'd guessed that."

"Smart boy. But imagine that instead of voting by how many people wanted something, they had to vote by estate. Everyone in the estate had to agree—that was no small task—and then two estates had to agree. Don't you think that the clergy and nobility would ban together, to make sure the Third Estate wasn't heard? What would you say to that? Remember, there are more people in the Third Estate than in the First and Second put together."

"I'd say…I'd say that wasn't fair."

"Why not?"

"Because if more people want something, that's what should be done, right?"

"That's what I love about children; you all have a natural grasp of right and wrong, justice and injustice; fair and unfair, as you call it. You have the concept of natural right ingrained deep inside you. It takes the schooling of the world to turn you into monarchists, or tyrants, or bureaucrats. Children are naturally Jacobins."

The boy looked askance at the unfamiliar word.

"Jacobins?"

"Ah, yes, we'll get to them."

"What are they?" the boy interrupted.

"They are—they were—well, I was one."

"You?" The boy asked incredulously. He did not know what a Jacobin was, though he thought that if both he and the old man were ones, they could not be a bad thing. And it had something to do with being fair. The boy had always tried to be fair to everyone, even if they were not always fair to him.

"Yes, me. I was not always an old man living in this hut, you know!"

"So what's a Jacobin?" Marcellin asked. "You can't call me something and then not tell me what it is."

"A Jacobin," the old man said with a smile, "Is one who believes in natural rights."

"Natural rights?" The boy asked. The man fidgeted.

"We'll get to those too. You'll forgive me, boy, this isn't an easy topic, and I'm not a teacher."

"You're doing all right." The boy said authoritatively, "Go on."

"Yes. So, imagine that all of France was being ruled by a tyranny. A few people were telling everyone else what to do, and like I said, even when most of the people agreed on something, the other two estates banded together, and would outvote them. And of course, the king had the power to veto—that means say no to—whatever he liked. Do you think that is fair as well?"

"No, not at all."

"Right, my boy, it wasn't fair, and it wasn't right! And why wasn't it right?"

"It wasn't right because one person can't tell everyone else what to do. That's like Jean-Louis. You should do whatever the most people want, shouldn't you?"

"You certainly should."

"In Marseilles, we always did that. When we were deciding what to play and we couldn't agree, I'd make them vote. It was fair that way." The old man shook his head, looking impressed.

"Well, my boy, we'll make a Jacobin of you yet."

"Don't all people act that way? I mean, it's _fair_."

"No, not all people. You'd be surprised, my boy. People can be _fair_ to each other on a day to day basis. They'll give alms to the beggars outside their own churches and protect their own wives and daughters, but when it comes to pass laws that'll give alms to all the poor, and protect all the wives and daughters, they suddenly aren't so concerned with being fair." The boy folded his arms on the table and frowned.

"That's not right. Isn't the most important thing to help people?"

"It should be. But, government doesn't work that way."

"Why not?"

"Sometimes there are other things that seem more important. Sometimes people can't see it's the most important thing."

"That's not right." The boy repeated.

"No, it's not. I won't bore you with a long list of the injustices of the monarchial system. We'll sum it up by saying that the few ruled the many, and the many were not listened to, no matter how many there were, no matter who they were. The only way a man had any power was to be born into it. They believed then that rights were given by the king, who had the right to be king from God, and he could take away your rights as he pleased."

"That's not fair, either." The boy interrupted, staring intensely at the wood of the table. He knew that what the old man said had happened a long time ago, but for some reason it was bothering him.

"Exactly, and the Jacobins believed in natural rights, you see, rights that supersede the rights given by the law, by the king."

"What are those?" the boy asked, "Natural rights?"

"Yes—the right—ah, well, there is a way to explain this better." The old man pulled himself out of his chair with a wince and hobbled over to a bookshelf. He pulled out a book seemingly at random at put it in the boy's hand. The boy looked at it. It was barely a book; it was little more than a group of papers bound together.

"'The Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen.'" The boy read, "What is it?" he asked.

"It is a way of explaining to you our reasons, by showing you what we did. Read, boy, the first article." The boy opened to the first page.

"Article One;" he read. "Man is born and remains free and equal in rights. Social distinctions may be based only on common utility." He looked up at the old man.

"Go on, boy." The man said, nodding solemnly. The boy looked quizzical but he returned to the text.

"The purpose of all political association is the preservation of the natural and imprescriptible rights of man. These rights are liberty, property, security, and resistance to oppression." He looked up. "Are those natural rights?" the boy asked, looking more relaxed than he had since the old man had met him.

"Yes, boy, those are natural rights in a nutshell. Do you understand what it means?" The boy thought for a moment, then nodded.

"It means that everyone is the same, that everyone is free."

"Right." The man said, "And what else?"

"That…" the boy glanced down at the text, "That the laws have to protect you. The laws have to protect—" he glanced down again, "Liberty, property, security and resistance to oppression." The old man smiled and nodded sagaciously.

"What if that older boy, Jean-Louis took something of yours—a pear, perhaps—what would you do?"

"I'd thrash him." Marcellin said without even stopping to think. The old man laughed heartily.

"What if you couldn't? If he was bigger and stronger, and you didn't have any friends to help you?"

"Then I'd…I'd tell my mother. She'd get it back."

"Yes. In that case, your mother would be like the law; there to protect you and make sure no other person can take what is rightfully yours. That is the purpose of the law." The boy nodded solemnly, his eyes on the text before him.

"Read the next article." The boy got up and went to the window, holding the book under the light.

"Article Three: The principle of all sovereignty rests essentially in the nation. No body and no individual may exercise authority which does not emanate expressly from the nation." The boy looked at the old man, who nodded, a signal for him to go on, " Article Four; Liberty consists in the ability to do whatever does not harm another; hence, the exercise of the natural rights of each man has no other limits than those which assure to other members of society the enjoyment of the same rights. These limits can only be determined by the law."

"Do you understand that?" the old man asked.

"Yes—that I have the right to do whatever I want so long as I don't hurt anyone, right?"

"To put it simply, yes. And sovereignty—the right to rule comes from…?"

"The nation."

"And who are the nation?"

"The people of the country?"

"That's right; the people. Not a small percentage of them born into it by luck. Not a king given the right to rule by god. Not a Corsican general who proclaims himself emperor; the people. You and me. We are the ones who make the law. We are the ones who have the right to set limits on the law; which is only there to…?"

"Protect the natural laws." The boy was solemn, looking at his feet.

"Does it make sense?" the old man asked. The boy nodded. "And my boy, most importantly of all—do you agree with it?"

"I suppose." The boy said, "But isn't that all rather easy stuff? People being free, and things?"

"It wasn't always, Marcellin." The old man said, using his name for the first time. "The world has changed a lot between that day and this. The things we take for granted now were not so simple when I was young. Shall I tell you the rest of the story? About what happened that led up to us writing this declaration—and what happened after it."

"Of course you're going to tell me!" the boy said, sitting down again. "Aren't you?"

"Yes, yes." The man said, easing himself into the chair again, "But I warn you; some of it is not so nice. You may not agree with our ideals after I tell you what we did to protect them. I myself am not so fond of what we did to protect them. You may not like me after my tale is through."

"That doesn't matter." The boy said, putting the bound book on the table. "Explain this." He commanded imperiously. "Tell me everything." The man shook his head.

"All right, but I warned you. Are you sure you don't want some tea, boy? This isn't a story that can be told quickly."

"Nothing. The story." The boy commanded, and with a laugh, the old man began.


	3. Chapter 3

Marcellin was staring out the window, his arms folded on the windowsill, his chin resting on them. The old man was sitting at the table behind him, studying him carefully.

"I've lost you forever, I see." The old man said, "You think I'm a murderer, and the Jacobins are all the same now, don't you?"

"No," the boy said, lost in his contemplations. "I don't think that."

"Then you think I was wrong for voting against the death penalty, I suppose."

"No. You were right. It's not fair to kill anyone." He turned from the windowsill and sat back down in the rickety chair, his eyes cast down.

"Life's never fair, my boy, never. In my youth I thought it was my job to try and make it fair."

"And now?"

"Now? Now I find it's not my job any more. We tried as best we could, but for every spark of light in the darkness, there's ten clouds waiting to cover it up. The Revolution brought light. The Terror brought fire. Thermidor burnt those hands that set the fire. And this Buonoparte is darkness again."

"But it doesn't end like that does it?" the boy asked, suddenly full of eagerness. "We don't just stop? Someone is going to…bring the light, right?"

"We can study the past, but we can't predict the future. Right now, the nation wants to rest. It can't be bothered to work at anything, when it's done all the running it can do just to get to where it was before the Revolution."

"But someone is going to!" the boy insisted. The man nodded patiently.

"Yes, boy, eventually, someone will. Humanity has a natural instinct towards progress, especially now that we see it can be done. A republic is possible, if the men in charge are just and the people are just. Right now, France is asleep—and well she should be, she's earned her rest—but she will wake up again, and perhaps sooner than you think. No one who has tasted cakes will be happy with bread." The boy closed his eyes.

"How long will it take?" he asked.

"I don't know, I won't be around to see it. You will, perhaps." The old man smiled, "Yes, I think you will. Now, my boy, oughtn't you be getting back to your mother and 'stupid Digne?' I'm sure she's worried about you."

"Maybe." The boy said, incapable of being distracted, "But if progress is natural, then why are there so many people who try to stop it? If everyone is born free, and everyone is born a Jacobin, like you said, why are there still kings? Why aren't all countries republics? Why did that man—that Robespierre—try to kill everyone who disagreed with him? He was a good man, he wanted the best for the people, why did he do bad things?" The boy put his head on the table.

"He did bad things because he thought he was doing right. Sometimes, boy, when we are in extraordinary circumstances, we do things we never dreamed we could do before. Desperation can make—why, my boy, you aren't crying, are you?"

He was, however much he tried to hide it. The tears were running down his face faster than they ever had before, and he couldn't even figure out why. It was just a history lesson, like he had every day, no different than Charlemagne or the battles of Louis XIV. It had been bad, but worse things had happened, even in France. Why did it bother him?

"It's not fair, it wasn't fair!" the boy was mumbling through his tears, "It could have been good and it _wasn't_! It could have been perfect and it _wasn't_!" The old man tried to put his arms around the boy.

"Little patriot." He said fondly, " You don't need to cry." The boy pushed his arms away.

"Don't touch me." He said flatly.

"Fine. Your tears do you credit; I've never seen such enthusiasm in one so young. But you mustn't cry over it, really. It's over, now." The boy wiped away his tears. "There, that's better. Tears never solved anything, and I can tell that you've a mind to solve everything." The boy lifted his tearstained face. "Yes, I can see it. You're ambitious already. That's good. I don't hold much hope for your father's generation; they are the ones who are tired and bored with everything. These Buonopartists don't care about equality or liberty, just warfare. It is all a step backwards. But your generation—you, my boy—I have hope for you. A generation that has heard the tales of the Republic, and has lived through this era of darkness—surely you are the ones who will want the light. Yes, when you are grown, you'll see; great things will begin happening. A nation can't remain dormant for long." The old man was quiet after this long speech.

"Don't stop." The boy commanded, "Tell me more."

"More!" the man laughed, " I've told you everything I know!"

"But there must be more!"

"Perhaps, someday there will be." The old man rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. Marcellin eyed him suspiciously. Was he getting tired of Marcellin and his questions? Did he want him to go away and stop bothering him? He was about to get up and leave the small hut when the man spoke.

"Marcellin," he said, using the boy's name for once, "Come here." The boy obeyed instantly, kneeling next to the man's chair.

"Would you, if I asked, do something for me?"

"Of course." Marcellin responded instantly. "What?"

"I phrased that wrong; it is not for me. It is for France."

"Of course." The boy said even faster. He would be quicker to do a favor for the old man than for France, but the two were becoming fused in his mind. "What can I do?"

"Are you a good student, boy?"

"Yes." He lied. He tended to get by with doing the bare minimum his governess would allow.

"Bring me that book, over there, on my desk. And the ink." The boy rushed to obey. With a jar of watery ink, the old man began writing on the page.

"Youth must assert itself. You are very young, but you are never too young to begin your education. You've got a natural instinct for justice, boy, as I've said, and it'd be a shame to put that instinct to waste by coupling it with ignorance. You're quick to act, as you've proved to me, but acting is only half the battle." The boy nodded soberly. The man tore the page out of his book.

"I would like to supervise your education; teach you everything I know, steer you in the right direction, but I know that's impossible. You'll be leaving Digne soon, and I don't have long to live—don't pity me, my boy, I've lived a long time and I'm very happy to die. But you need someone to guide you; you yearn for it, I can tell. So I'll give you the teachers I had. Find these books. Begin here. They may be a little difficult for one your age, but either you will rise to the occasion, or the occasion will arise on its own when you are older. Don't try to rush yourself; if you don't understand now, you will one day."

"I'll understand. I'll understand everything." The boy vowed, inspecting the page in his hand. "What are the books?"

" 'The Social Contract,' by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Have you heard of him?"

"No."

"Well, you will. Rousseau was a man we all revered in the days of the Convention. Scarcely a day passed without a mention of him, and of what he would have wanted. And if I can tell you a secret, my boy, I was often the one doing the mentioning. Rousseau is a good place to begin. After him, John Locke, though he's sometimes a bit hard to find in translation. If you can't find him, then Voltaire. Those are the three men that we spoke of the most; I suppose if they were good enough for us, they'll be good enough for you." The man laughed, "Look at me! Have I become so desperate to find someone who agrees with me that I'm giving Rousseau to a seven-year-old!"

"I'm nearly eight." The boy corrected.

"All the same, it's a bit above your head."

"I'll learn."

"I don't doubt it. But what makes either of us think you care about the Revolution? I've told you a good story and it affects you now, but you'll go home to St. Raphael, or Cahors, and you'll forget, grow out of it, like all little boys. You'll end up a bourgeois like your father—"

"I will not!" the boy thundered as best he could in his childlike voice. "I won't forget! I _can't_ forget! How can anyone forget something like that!" he turned away and went back to staring out the window.

"And why do you suppose you care so much?"

"Because I want things to be fair." He said. He turned back to the old man. "If I'm ever in Digne again, can I come and see you?"

"Of course, my boy, I'd like that very much. If you still are interested in the Jacobin ramblings of an old man."

"You're the only grown-up who has ever told me anything worth listening to." The boy confessed. His teacher smiled.

"That may be the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time." He picked up the ragged book that was still on the table, "Here, boy, take this with you. Read it at night before you go to sleep, as if it was a prayer book. Never forget what we did so that you might be free. Never forget what still must be done, and that it will be up to you and your children to do it." The boy put his hands behind his back.

"The Declaration is yours!" he protested, "You said yourself it was the first printing! You can't give it to me!"

"What good is it doing me? I'm an old man now, shut up in this house. Does it do any good to keep a document about the Rights of Man when the country denies these rights? You take it, Marcellin, and remember it." The boy looked as if he was going to protest again, but he did not. His mother would ask where he had got it. That was fine. She wouldn't get an answer. She never even had to see it. He could hide it in his coat for the rest of the trip if he had to. No one was taking the book.

"Now, boy, I think you should really be going back to Digne. Do you remember the way?"

"I think so." He said, "It's not a long walk, you don't have to come with me."

"I wasn't going to, even if I wanted to. My legs are not what they used to be." The man smiled, but the young boy did not. He seemed a lot sadder than when he had first walked into the hut.

"Thank you for this, Monsieur." The man laughed.

"You don't say ' Monsieur,' to me, you hear? During the Republic a man called his fellow ' Citoyen.'"

"Citoyen," the boy repeated, trying out this new form of address, "Then, thank you, Citoyen." The old man opened his mouth to bid the boy farewell but before he could, Marcellin had fled out the door, the Declaration in his hand.

"I might be going mad," the old man said to himself as he watched the boy run back to Digne, "But that little boy might be something some day."


End file.
